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IRRADIATIONS 
SAND  AND  SPRAY 


BY 

JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER 


BOSTON    AND    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,    1914,   BY  HARRIET   MONROE   AND   HARRIET  SHAW  WEAVER 
COPYRIGHT,    1915,   BY  JOHN  GOULD   FLETCHER 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


Published  April 


TO 

AMY   LOWELL 
BEST   OF   FRIENDS   AND    POETS 


331030 


THANKS  are  due  to  the  Editors  of  Poetry  (Chicago)  and 
The  Egoist  (London)  for  permission  to  reprint  here  matter 
that  originally  appeared  in  the  pages  of  their  respective 
publications. 


PREFACE 

THE  art  of  poetry  as  practised  in  the  English-speaking  coun' 
tries  tO'day,is  in  a  greatly  backward  state.  Among  the  read/ 
ing  public  there  are  exactly  three  opinions  generally  held 
about  it.  The  first,  and  by  far  the  most  popular,  view  is 
that  all  poets  are  fools  and  that  poetry  is  absurd.  The  second 
is  that  poetry  is  an  agreeable  after-dinner  entertainment, 
and  that  a  poet  is  great  because  he  has  written  quotable  lines. 
The  last  and  worst  is  that  which  strives  to  press  the  poet  into 
the  service  of  some  philosophical  dogma,  ism,  or  fad. 

For  these  views  the  poets  themselves,  and  no  others,  are 
largely  responsible.  With  their  exaggerated  vanity,  they 
have  attempted  to  make  of  their  craft  a  Masonic  secret,  iter 
ating  that  a  poet  composes  by  ear  alone ;  that  rhythm  is  not 
to  be  analyzed,  that  rhyme  is  sacrosanct ;  that  poets,  by  some 
special  dispensation  of  Providence,  write  by  inspiration,  be 
ing  born  with  more  insight  than  other  men;  and  so  forth. 
Is  it  any  wonder  that  the  public  is  indifferent,  hostile,  or 
befooled  when  poets  themselves  disdain  to  explain  clearly 
what  they  are  trying  to  do,  and  refuse  to  admit  the  public 
into  the  privacy  of  their  carefully  guarded  workrooms? 

It  was  Theophile  Gautier,  I  think,  who  offered  to  teach 
any  one  how  to  write  poetry  in  twenty-five  lessons.  Now 

[ix   ] 


PREFACE 

this  view  has  in  it  some  exaggeration, but,  at  the  same  time, 
much  truth.  No  amount  of  lessoning  will  turn  an  idiot  into 
a  wise  man,  or  enable  a  man  to  say  something  when  he  is 
naturally  one  who  has  nothing  to  say.  Nevertheless,  I  be/ 
lieve  that  there  would  have  been  fewer  mute  inglorious 
Miltons,  greater  respect  paid  to  poetry,  and  many  better 
poets,  if  the  poets  themselves  had  stopped  working  through 
sheer  instinct  and  set  themselves  the  task  of  considering 
some  elementary  principles  in  their  craft.  In  this  belief,  and 
in  the  hope  of  enlightening  some  one  as  to  the  aim  and  pur/ 
pose  of  my  work,  I  am  writing  this  preface. 

To  begin  with,  the  basis  of  English  poetry  is  rhythm,  or, 
as  some  would  prefer  to  call  it,  cadence.  This  rhythm  is  ob/ 
tained  by  mingling  stressed  and  unstressed  syllables.  Stress 
may  be  produced  by  accent.  It  may —  and  often  is —  pro/ 
duced  by  what  is  known  as  quantity,  the  breath  required 
to  pronounce  certain  syllables  being  more  than  is  required 
on  certain  others.  However  it  be  produced,  it  is  precisely 
this  insistence  upon  cadence,  upon  the  rhythm  of  the  line 
when  spoken,  which  sets  poetry  apart  from  prose,  and  not 
—  be  it  said  at  the  outset  —  a  certain  way  of  printing,  with 
a  capital  letter  at  the  beginning  of  each  line,  or  an  insist/ 
ence  upon  end'rhymes. 

Now  this  rhythm  can  be  made  the  same  in  every  line  of 
the  poem.  This  was  the  aim  of  Alexander  Pope,  for  in/ 
stance.  My  objection  to  this  method  is  that  it  is  both  arti/ 

[*3 


PREFACE 

ficial  and  unmusical.  In  the  case  of  the  eighteentlvcentury 
men,  it  gave  the  effect  of  a  perfectly  balanced  pattern,  like 
a  minuet  or  fugue.  In  the  case  of  the  modern  imitator 
of  Kipling  or  Masefield,  it  gives  the  effect  of  monotonous 
rag'time.  In  neither  case  does  it  offer  full  scope  for  emo> 
tional  development. 

I  maintain  that  poetry  is  capable  of  as  many  gradations 
in  cadence  as  music  is  in  time.  We  can  have  a  rapid  group 
of  syllables  —  what  is  called  a  line  —  succeeded  by  a  slow 
heavy  one;  like  the  swift,  scurrying'Up  of  the  wave  and 
the  sullen  dragging  of  itself  away.  Or  we  can  gradually  in/ 
crease  or  decrease  our  tempo,  creating  accelerando  and  r alien* 
tando  effects.  Or  we  can  follow  a  group  of  rapid  lines  with 
a  group  of  slow  ones,  or  a  single  slow,  or  vice  versa.  Fi/ 
nally,  we  can  have  a  perfectly  even  and  unaltered  move/ 
ment  throughout  if  we  desire  to  be  monotonous. 

The  good  poem  is  that  in  which  all  these  effects  are 
properly  used  to  convey  the  underlying  emotions  of  its  au 
thor,  and  that  which  welds  all  these  emotions  into  a  work 
of  art  by  the  use  of  dominant  motif,  subordinate  themes 
proportionate  treatment,  repetition,  variation,  —  what  ir 
music  is  called  development,  reversal  of  roles,  and  return 
In  short,  the  good  poem  fixes  a  free  emotion,  or  a  free  range 
of  emotions,  into  an  inevitable  and  artistic  whole.  The  real 
secret  of  the  greatest  English  poets  lies  not  in  their  views  o 
life,  —  which  were,  naturally,  only  those  which  every  sani 

[xi] 


PREFACE 

man  is  obliged  to  hold,  —  but  in  their  profound  knowledge 
of  their  craft,  whereby  they  were  enabled  to  put  forth  their 
views  in  perfect  form.  Each  era  of  man  has  its  unique  and 
self'sufficing  range  of  expression  and  experience,  and  there' 
fore  every  poet  must  seek  anew  for  himself,  out  of  the  Ian/ 
guage'medium  at  his  disposal,  rhythms  which  are  adequate 
and  forms  which  are  expressive  of  his  own  unique  person' 
ality. 

As  regards  the  length  of  the  lines  themselves,  that  de' 
pends  altogether  upon  the  apparatus  which  Nature  has  given 
us,  to  enable  us  to  breathe  and  to  speak.  Each  line  of  a 
poem,  however  many  or  few  its  stresses,  represents  a  single 
breath,  and  therefore  a  single  perception.  The  relation  be' 
tween  breath  and  perception  is  a  commonplace  of  Oriental 
philosophy.  As  we  breathe  so  do  we  know  the  universe, 
whether  by  sudden,  powerful  gusts  of  inspiration,  or  through 
the  calmer  —  but  rarer  —  gradual  ascent  into  the  hidden 
mysteries  of  knowledge,  and  slow  falling  away  therefrom 
into  darkness. 

So  much  for  the  question  of  metre.  The  second  range 
of  problems  with  which  we  are  immediately  concerned, 
when  we  examine  the  poetic  craft,  is  that  which  is  gener/ 
ally  expressed  under  the  name  of  rhyme. 

Now  rhyme  is  undoubtedly  an  element  of  poetry,  but  it 
is  neither  an  indissoluble  element,  nor  is  it,  in  every  case,  an 
inevitable  one.  In  the  main,  the  instinct  which  makes  for 


PREFACE 

rhyme  is  sound.  Poetry  is  an  art  which  demands  —  though 
not  invariably  —  the  utmost  richness  and  fulness  of  musical 
effect.  When  rhyme  is  considered  as  an  additional  instru' 
ment  of  what  may  be  called  the  poetic  orchestra,  it  both  loses 
and  gains  in  importance.  It  loses  because  it  becomes  of  no 
greater  import  than  assonance,  consonance,  alliteration,  and 
a  host  of  similar  devices.  It  gains  because  it  is  used  intelli/ 
gently  as  a  device  for  adding  richness  of  effect,  instead  of 
blindly  as  a  mere  tag  at  the  end  of  a  line. 

The  system  which  demands  that  the  end  of  every  line 
of  poetry  must  rhyme  with  the  end  of  some  one  preceding 
or  following  it,  has  not  even  the  merit  of  high  antiquity  or 
of  civilized  adherence.  In  its  essence  it  is  barbarous ;  it  de/ 
rives  from  the  stamping  of  feet,  clapping  of  hands,  pound/ 
ing  of  drums,  or  like  devices  of  savage  peoples  to  mark  the 
rhythms  in  their  dances  and  songs.  And  its  introduction 
into  European  poetry,  as  a  rule  to  be  invariably  followed, 
dates  precisely  from  the  time  of  the  break/up  of  the  Latin 
civilization,  and  the  approach  of  what  the  historians  know 
as  the  Dark  Ages.  Since  it  has  come  into  common  use 
among  European  peoples,  every  poet  of  eminence  has  tried 
to  avoid  its  fatiguing  monotony,  by  constructing  new  stanza/ 
forms.  Dante,  Petrarch,  Chaucer,  Spenser,  all  these  were  in/ 
novators  or  developers  of  what  may  be  known  as  formal 
metre.  But  let  us  not  forget  that  the  greatest  of  all,  Shake/ 
speare,  used  rhyme  in  his  plays,  only  as  additional  decora/ 

[  xiii  ] 


PREFACE 

tion  to  a  lyric,  or  in  a  perfectly  legitimate  fashion  as  mark/ 
ing  the  necessary  pause  at  the  close  of  a  scene.  Let  us  also 
remember  that,  as  he  advanced  in  thought  and  expression, 
he  gradually  abandoned  rhyme  for  the  only  reason  that  an 
artist  abandons  anything  ;  because  it  was  no  longer  adequate. 
The  process  that  began  with  the  Pervigilium  Veneris, 
the  mediaeval  hymn'writers,  and  the  Provencal  troubadours, 
and  which  culminated  in  the  orchestral  blank  verse  of 
Shakespeare,  has  now  passed  through  all  the  stages  of  re/ 
duction  to  formula,  eclecticism,  archaistic  reaction,  vul' 
garization,  gramaphone  popularity,  and  death.  Milton  — 
Gibbon  among  poets  —  reduced  it  to  his  too'inonotonous 
organ'roll.  Dry  den,  Pope  and  his  followers,  endlessly  re/ 
peated  a  formula.  Blake,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  attempted 
a  return  to  the  Elizabethan  and  to  the  even  earlier  ballad 
forms.  In  the  later  nineteenth  century  we  come  back  to 
still  earlier  forms.  Ballades,  rondeaus,  even  sestinas  appear. 
Gradually  we  find  the  public  attention  dropping  away  from 
these  juggling  feats  performed  with  stale  form,  and  turning 
to  what  may  be  called  the  new  balladist  —  the  street  singer 
who  is  content  to  doggerelize  and  make  strident  a  once 
noble  form.  We  have  our  Masefields,  our  Kiplings,  and 
worse.  Rag'time  has  at  last  made  its  appearance  in  poetry. 
Let  us  be  grateful  to  the  man  who  invented  it  —  Nicholas 
Vachel  Lindsay—  but  let  us  admit  that  the  force  of  nature 
can  no  further  go. 


xv 


PREFACE 

It  is  time  to  create  something  new.  It  is  time  to  strip 
poetry  of  meaningless  tatters  of  form,  and  to  clothe  her  in 
new,  suit  able  garments.  Portents  and  precursors  there  have 
been  in  plenty.  We  already  have  Blake,  Matthew  Arnold, 
Whitman,  Samuel  Butler,  and  I  know  not  how  many  more. 
Every  one  is  talking — many  poets,  poeticules,  and  poetas/ 
ters  are  writing — what  they  call  "free  verse."  Let  there  be 
no  mistake  about  one  thing.  Free  verse  that  is  flabby,  in' 
organic,  shapelessly  obvious,  is  as  much  of  a  crime  against 
poetry  as  the  cheapest  echo  of  aMasefield  that  any  doggerel 
scribbler  ever  strummed.  Let  poets  drop  their  formulas  — 
"free"  or  otherwise  —  and  determine  to  discipline  them/ 
selves  through  experiment.  There  is  much  to  be  learned 
from  the  precursors  I  have  mentioned.  There  is  a  great 
deal  to  be  learned  from  the  French  poets — Parnassians, 
Symbolists,  Whitmanites,  Fantaisistes — who  have,  in  the 
years  1860  to  1900,  created  a  new  Renaissance  under  our 
noses.  But  above  all,  what  will  teach  us  the  most  is  our 
language  and  life.  Never  was  life  lived  more  richly,  more 
fully,  with  more  terrible  blind  intensity  than  it  is  being 
lived  at  this  instant.  Never  was  the  noble  language  which 
is  ours  surpassed  either  in  richness  or  in  concision.  We  have 
the  material  with  which  to  work,  and  the  tools  to  do  the 
work  with.  It  is  America's  opportunity  to  lay  the  founda' 
tions  for  a  new  flowering  of  English  verse,  and  to  lay  them 
as  broad  as  they  are  strong. 

January, 


CONTENTS 

IRRADIATIONS  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .     t 

EPILOGUE  .     .  V 40 

SAND  AND  SPRAY  (A  SEA-SYMPHONY)      '..       .41 
PART  I.  THE  GALE  .        .       .       .       .        .        .43 

PART  II.  VARIATIONS       .        .        .        .        .        .45 

(1)  SAILBOATS 45 

(2)  THE  TIDE 46 

(3)  THE  SANDS 48 

(4)  THE  GULLS 49 

(5)  STEAMERS 50 

(6)  NIGHT  OF   STARS 52 

PART  III.  VARIATIONS      .        .  .     .        .       .        .  53 

(1)  THE   GROUNDSWELL       .  .  .  •        ,  •  •    53 

(2)  SNOW    AT    SEA 55 

(3)  THE  NIGHT  WIND 56 

(4)  THE   WRECK      .  ...  .  .  .57 

(5)  TIDE    OF    STORMS     .          V.  .  .          .    58 

PART  IV.  THE  CALM        .  .        .       .       .59 


IRRADIATIONS 


THE  spattering  of  the  rain  upon  pale  terraces 

Of  afternoon  is  like  the  passing  of  a  dream 

Amid  the  roses  shuddering  'gainst  the  wet  green  stalks 

Of  the  streaming  trees  —  the  passing  of  the  wind 

Upon  the  pale  lower  terraces  of  my  dream 

Is  like  the  crinkling  of  the  wet  grey  robes 

Of  the  hours  that  come  to  turn  over  the  urn 

Of  the  day  and  spill  its  rainy  dream. 

Vague  movement  over  the  puddled  terraces : 

Heavy  gold  pennons  —  a  pomp  of  solemn  gardens 

Half  hidden  under  the  liquid  veil  of  spring: 

Far  trumpets  like  a  vague  rout  of  faded  roses 

Burst  'gainst  the  wet  green  silence  of  distant  forests  : 

A  clash  of  cymbals  —  then  the  swift  swaying  footsteps 

Of  the  wind  that  undulates  along  the  languid  terraces. 

Pools  of  rain — the  vacant  terraces 

Wet,  chill  and  glistening 

Towards  the  sunset  beyond  the  broken  doors  of  to'day. 


[  3  ] 


IRRADIATIONS 


II 

GAUNT  sails  —  bronze  boats  of  the  evening — 
Float  along  the  river  where  aloft 
Like  dim  swans  the  clouds  die 
Softly. 

I  am  afraid  to  traverse  the  long  still  streets  of  evening; 

For  I  fear  to  see  the  ghosts  that  stare  at  me 

From  the  shadows. 

I  will  stay  indoors  instead  and  await  my  wandering  dream. 

She  is  about  me,  fluid  yet,  and  formless ; 

The  wind  in  her  hair  whispers  like  dim  violins: 

And  the  faint  glint  of  her  eyes  shifts  like  a  sudden  move' 

ment 
Over  the  surface  of  a  dark  pool. 

She  comes  to  me  slowly  down  the  lost  streets  of  the  evening, 
And  their  immutable  silence  is  in  her  feet. 
Let  no  lamps  flare — be  still,  my  heart  —  hands,  stay: 
For  I  would  touch  the  lips  of  my  new  love  with  my  lips. 


[4] 


IRRADIATIONS 


III 

IN  the  grey  skirts  of  the  fog  seamews  skirl  desolately, 
And  flick  like  bits  of  paper  propelled  by  a  wind 
About  the  flabby  sails  of  a  departing  ship 
Crawling  slowly  down  the  low  reaches 
Of  the  river. 

About  the  keel  there  is  a  bubbling  and  gurgling 
Of  grumpy  water ; 

And  as  the  prow  noses  out  a  way  for  itself, 
It  seems  to  weave  a  dream  of  bubbles  and  flashing  foam, 
A  dream  of  strange  islands  whereto  it  is  bound: 
PearHslands  drenched  with  the  dawn. 
The  palms  flash  under  the  immense  dark  sky, 
Down  which  the  sun  dives  to  embrace  the  earth : 
Drums  boom  and  conches  bray, 
\  And  with  a  crash  of  crimson  cymbals 
Suddenly  appears  above  the  polished  backs  of  slaves 
A  king  in  a  breastplate  of  gold 
Gigantic 

Amid  tossed  roses  and  swaying  dancers 
That  melt  into  pale  undulations  and  muffled  echoes 
'Mid  the  bubbling  of  the  muddy  lumpy  water, 
And  the  swirling  of  the  seamews  above  the  sullen  river. 

[5  ] 


IRRADIATIONS 


IV 

THE  iridescent  vibrations  of  midsummer  light 
Dancing,  dancing,  suddenly  flickering  and  quivering 
Like  little  feet  or  the  movement  of  quick  hands  clapping, 
Or  the  rustle  of  furbelows  or  the  clash  of  polished  gems. 
The  palpitant  mosaic  of  the  midday  light 
Colliding,  sliding,  leaping  and  lingering : 
O,  I  could  lie  on  my  back  all  day, 
And  mark  the  mad  ballet  of  the  midsummer  sky. 


[6] 


IRRADIATIONS 


OVER  the  rooftops  race  the  shadows  of  clouds; 

Like  horses  the  shadows  of  clouds  charge  down  the  street. 

Whirlpools  of  purple  and  gold, 

Winds  from  the  mountains  of  cinnabar, 

Lacquered  mandarin  moments,  palanquins  swaying  and 

balancing 

Amid  the  vermilion  pavilions,  against  the  jade  balustrades. 
Glint  of  the  glittering  wings  of  dragon'flies  in  the  light: 
Silver  filaments,  golden  flakes  settling  downwards, 
Rippling,  quivering  flutters,  repulse  and  surrender, 
The  sun  broidered  upon  the  rain, 
The  rain  rustling  with  the  sun. 

Over  the  roof/tops  race  the  shadows  of  clouds; 

Like  horses  the  shadows  of  clouds  charge  down  the  street. 


[  7] 


IRRADIATIONS 


VI 

THE  balancing  of  gaudy  broad  pavilions 
Of  summer  against  the  insolent  breeze : 
The  bellying  of  the  sides  of  striped  tents, 
Swelling  taut,  shuddering  in  quick  collapse, 
Silent  under  the  silence  of  the  sky. 

Earth  is  streaked  and  spotted 

With  great  splashes  and  dapples  of  sunlight : 

The  sun  throws  an  immense  circle  of  hot  light  upon  the 

world, 

Rolling  slowly  in  ponderous  rhythm 
Darkly,  musically  forward. 

All  is  silent  under  the  steep  cone  of  afternoon: 

The  sky  is  imperturbably  profound. 

The  ultimate  divine  union  seems  about  to  be  accomplished, 

All  is  troubled  at  the  attainment 

Of  the  inexhaustible  infinite. 

The  rolling  and  the  tossing  of  the  sides  of  immense  pavilions 
Under  the  whirling  wind  that  screams  up  the  cloudless  sky. 


IRRADIATIONS 


VII 

FLICKERING  of  incessant  rain 

On  flashing  pavements : 

Sudden  scurry  of  umbrellas : 

Bending,  recurved  blossoms  of  the  storm. 

The  winds  came  clanging  and  clattering 
From  long  white  highroads  whipping  in  ribbons  up  summits 
They  strew  upon  the  city  gusty  wafts  of  apple/blossom, 
And  the  rustling  of  innumerable  translucent  leaves. 

Uneven  tinkling,  the  lazy  rain 
Dripping  from  the  eaves. 


[9] 


IRRADIATIONS 


VIII 

THE  fountain  blows  its  breathless  spray 
From  me  to  you  and  back  to  me. 

Whipped,  tossed,  curdled, 

Crashing,  quivering : 

I  hurl  kisses  like  blows  upon  your  lips. 

The  dance  of  a  bee  drunken  with  sunlight 

Irradiant  ecstasies,  white  and  gold, 

Sigh  and  relapse. 

The  fountain  tosses  pallid  spray 
Far  in  the  sorrowful,  silent  sky. 


IRRADIATIONS 


IX 

THE  houses  of  the  city  no  longer  hum  and  play: 
They  lie  like  careless  drowsy  giants,  dumb,  estranged. 

One  presses  to  his  breast  his  toy,  a  lighted  pane : 
One  stirs  uneasily :  one  is  cold  in  death. 

And  the  late  moon,  fearfully  peering  over  an  immense 

shoulder, 
Sees,  in  the  shadow  below,  the  unpeopled  hush  of  a  street. 


IRRADIATIONS 


X 

THE  trees,  like  great  jade  elephants, 

Chained,  stamp  and  shake  'neath  the  gadflies  of  the  breeze; 

The  trees  lunge  and  plunge,  unruly  elephants : 

The  clouds  are  their  crimson  howdah'canopies, 

The  sunlight  glints  like  the  golden  robe  of  a  Shah. 

Would  I  were  tossed  on  the  wrinkled  backs  of  those  trees. 


IRRADIATIONS 


XI 

THE  clouds  are  like  a  sombre  sea: 
On  shining  screens  of  ebony 
Are  carven  marvels  of  my  heart. 

'Gainst  crimson  placques  of  cinnabar 
Shrills,  like  a  diamond,  dawn's  last  star. 

The  gardens  of  my  heart  are  green : 
The  rain  drips  off  the  glistening  leaves. 
In  the  humid  gardens  of  my  soul, 
The  crimson  peonies  explode. 

I  am  like  a  drop  of  rose'flushed  rain, 
Clinging  to  crimson  petals  of  love. 

In  the  afternoon,  over  gold  screens, 
I  will  brush  the  blue  dust  of  my  dreams. 


IRRADIATIONS 


XII 

THE  pine,  rough'bearded  Pan  of  the  woods 

Whispered  in  my  ear  his  sleepysweet  song. 

Like  liquid  fire  it  ran  through  my  veins. 

Thus  he  piped:  Sad,  lonely  son  of  the  woods, 

Lie  down  in  the  long  still  grass  and  sleep, 

Ere  the  dawn  has  hidden  her  swelling  breasts, 

Ere  the  morning  has  covered  her  massive  flanks, 

With  the  flame'coloured  mantle  of  noon. 

Lie  down  in  the  dewless  grass  nor  awake 

To  see  whether  afternoon  has  hurried  in 

From  the  rim  of  her  purple  robe  dropping  dim  flowers; 

Golden  flowers  with  pollen'dusty  cups, 

Flowers  of  silence.  Heed  not  though  eve 

Should  sail,  a  grey  swan,  in  the  pool  of  the  sky, 

Spreading  low  ripples.  Heed  these  not! 

Only  awake  when  slim  twilight 

Plunges  her  body  in  the  last  blown  spray  of  the  sun ! 

Awake,  then,  for  twilight  and  dawn  are  your  day : 

Therefore  lie  down  in  the  long  dim  grass  and  sleep, 

And  I  will  blow  my  low  pipes  over  you. 


IRRADIATIONS 


XIII 

As  I  went  through  the  city  by  day 
I  saw  shadows  in  sunlight : 
But  in  the  night  I  saw  everywhere 
Stars  within  the  darkness. 

(A  coldly  fluting  breeze : 

Dark  Pan  under  the  trees. 

Low  laughter :  up  the  sky 

A  star  like  a  street-lamp  left  on  high.) 

As  I  went  through  the  city  by  day 

I  was  hustled  by  jostling  people. 

But  in  the  night,  the  wind  of  the  darkness 

Whispered,  "  Hush !  "  <to  my  soul. 


[  '5] 


IRRADIATIONS 


XIV 

BROWN  bed  of  earth,  still  fresh  and  warm  with  love, 

Now  hold  me  tight : 

Broad  field  of  sky,  where  the  clouds  laughing  move, 

Fill  up  my  pores  with  light : 

You  trees,  now  talk  to  me,  chatter  and  scold  or  weep, 

Or  drowsing  stand : 

You  winds,  now  play  with  me,  you  wild  things  creep, 

You  boulders,  bruise  my  hand ! 

I  now  am  yours  and  you  are  mine :  it  matters  not 

What  Gods  herein  I  see : 

You  grow  in  me,  I  am  rooted  to  this  spot, 

We  drink  and  pass  the  cup,  immortally. 


[  16] 


IRRADIATIONS 


XV 

O  SEEDED  grass,  you  army  of  little  men 

Crawling  up  the  long  slope  with  quivering,  quick  blades  of 

steel : 
You  who  storm  millions  of  graves,  tiny  green  tentacles  of 

Earth, 

Interlace  yourselves  tightly  over  my  heart, 
And  do  not  let  me  go : 

For  I  would  lie  here  forever  and  watch  with  one  eye 
The  pilgrimaging  ants  in  your  dull,  savage  jungles, 
The  while  with  the  other  I  see  the  stiff  lines  of  the  slope 
Break  in  mid'air,  a  wave  surprisingly  arrested, 
And  above  them,  wavering,  dancing,  bodiless,  colourless, 

unreal, 
The  long  thin  lazy  fingers  of  the  heat. 


IRRADIATIONS 


XVI 

AN  ant  crawling  up  a  grass'blade, 

And  above  it,  the  sky. 

I  shall  remember  these  when  I  die : 

An  ant  and  a  butterfly 

And  the  sky. 

The  grass  is  full  of  forget 'me 'iiots  and  poppies : 
Through  the  air  darts  many  a  fly. 
The  ant  toils  up  its  grass'blade, 
The  careless  hours  go  by. 

The  grass'blades  bow  to  the  feet  of  the  lazy  hours : 
They  walk  out  of  the  wood,  showering  shadows  on  flowers, 
Their  robes  flutter  vaguely  far  off  there  in  the  clearing : 
I  see  them  sometimes  from  the  corner  of  my  eye. 


IRRADIATIONS 


XVII 

THE  wind  that  drives  the  fine  dry  sand 
Across  the  strand: 
The  sad  wind  spinning  arabesques 
With  a  wrinkled  hand. 

Labyrinths  of  shifting  sand, 
The  dancing  dunes ! 

I  will  arise  and  run  with  the  sand, 

And  gather  it  greedily  in  my  hand : 

I  will  wriggle  like  a  long  yellow  snake  over  the  beaches. 

I  will  lie  curled  up,  sleeping, 

And  the  wind  shall  chase  me 

Far  inland. 

My  breath  is  the  music  of  the  mad  wind; 
Shrill  piping,  stamping  of  drunken  feet, 
The  fluttering,  tattered  broidery  flung 
Over  the  dunes'  steep  escarpments. 

The  fine  dry  sand  that  whistles 
Down  the  long  low  beaches. 


19 


IRRADIATIONS 


XVIII 

BLUE,  brown,  blue:  sky,  sand,  sea: 
I  swell  to  your  immensity. 
I  will  run  over  the  endless  beach, 
I  will  shout  to  the  breaking  spray, 
I  will  touch  the  sky  with  my  fingers. 
My  happiness  is  like  this  sand: 
I  let  it  run  out  of  my  hand. 


IRRADIATIONS 


XIX 

THE  clouds  pass 

Over  the  polished  mirror  of  the  sky: 
The  clouds  pass,  puffs  of  grey, 
There  is  no  star. 

The  clouds  pass  slowly : 
Suddenly  a  disengaged  star  flashes. 
The  night  is  cold  and  the  clouds 
Roll  slowly  over  the  sky. 


[21] 


IRRADIATIONS 


XX 

I  DANCE: 

I  exist  in  motion : 

A  wind'shaken  flower  spilling  my  drops  in  the  sunlight. 

I  feel  the  muscles  bending,  relaxing  beneath  me ; 

I  direct  the  rippling  sweep  of  the  lines  of  my  body; 

Its  impact  crashes  through  the  thin  walls  of  the  atmosphere, 

I  dance. 

About  me  whirls 

The  sombre  hall,  the  gaudy  stage,  the  harsh  glare  of  the 

footlights, 

And  in  the  brains  of  thousands  watching 
Little  flames  leap  quivering  to  the  music  of  my  effort. 

I  have  danced: 
I  have  expressed  my  soul 
In  unbroken  rhythm, 
Sorrow,  and  flame. 

I  am  tired :  I  would  be  extinguished  beneath  your  beating 
hands. 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXI 

NOT  noisily,  but  solemnly  and  pale, 

In  a  meditative  ecstasy  you  entered  life : 

As  performing  some  strange  rite,  to  which  you  alone  held 

the  clue. 

Child,  life  did  not  give  rude  strength  to  you ; 
From  the  beginning,  you  would  seem  to  have  thrown  away, 
As  something  cold  and  cumbersome,  that  armour  men  use 

against  death. 
You  would  perhaps  look  on  him  face  to  face,  and  so  learn 

the  secret 

Whether  that  face  wears  oftenest  a  smile  or  no  ? 
Strange,  old,  and  silent  being,  there  is  something 
Infinitely  vast  in  your  intense  tininess : 
I  think  you  could  point  out,  with  a  smile,  some  curious  star 
Far  off  in  the  heavens,  which  no  man  has  seen  before. 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXII 

THE  morning  is  clean  and  blue  and  the  wind  blows  up  the 

clouds : 

Now  my  thoughts  gathered  from  afar 
Once  again  in  their  patched  armour,  with  rusty  plumes  and 

blunted  swords, 
Move  out  to  war. 

Smoking  our  morning  pipes  we  shall  ride  two  and  two 
Through  the  woods. 
For  our  old  cause  keeps  us  together, 
And  our  hatred  is  so  precious  not  death  or  defeat  can  break 
it. 

God  willing,  we  shall  this  day  meet  that  old  enemy 
Who  has  given  us  so  many  a  good  beating. 
Thank  God  we  have  a  cause  worth  fighting  for, 
And  a  cause  worth  losing  and  a  good  song  to  sing. 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXIII 

TORRIDLY  the  moon  rolls  upward 

Against  the  smooth  immensity  of  midsummer  sky, 

Changeless,  inexhaustible  : 

The  city  beneath  is  still : 

Heaven  and  Earth  are  clasped  together, 

Momently  life  grows  as  careless 

As  the  life  of  the  intense  stars. 

Out  of  the  houses  climbing, 

Fuming  up  windows,  flickering  from  every  rooftop, 

Rigid  on  sonorous  pinnacles, 

Silently  swirl  aloft 

Love's  infinite  flamelets. 


Y 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXIV 
r 

0  ALL  you  stars  up  yonder, 

Do  you  hear  me  ?  Beautiful,  winking,  sullen  eyes, 

1  am  tired  of  seeing  you  in  the  same  old  places, 
Night  after  night  in  the  sky. 

I  hoped  you  would  dance  —  but  after  twentysix  years, 

I  find  you  are  determined  to  stay  as  you  are. 

So  I  make  it  known  to  you,  stars  clustered  or  solitary, 

That  I  want  you  to  fall  into  my  lap  to-night. 

Come  down,  little  stars,  let  me  play  with  you : 

I  will  string  you  like  beads,  and  shovel  you  together, 

And  wear  you  in  my  ears,  and  scatter  you  over  people  — 

And  toss  you  back,  like  apples,  if  I  choose. 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXV 

As  I  wandered  over  the  city  through  the  night, 

I  saw  many  strange  things : 

But  I  have  forgotten  all 

Except  one  painted  face. 

Gaudy,  shameless  night-orchid, 

Heavy,  flushed,  sticky  with  narcotic  perfume, 

There  was  something  in  you  which  made  me  prefer  you 

Above  all  the  feeble  forget-me-nots  of  the  world. 

You  were  neither  burnt  out  nor  pallid, 

There  was  plain,  coarse,  vulgar  meaning  in  every  line  of  you 

And  no  make-believe : 

You  were  at  least  alive, 

When  all  the  rest  were  but  puppets  of  the  night. 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXVI 

SLOWLY  along  the  lamp'emblazoned  street, 
Amid  the  last  sad  drifting  crowds  of  midnight 
Like  lost  souls  wandering, 
Comes  marching  by  solemnly 
As  for  some  gem'bedecked  ritual  of  old, 
A  monotonous  procession  of  black  carts 
Full  crowded  with  blood'red  blossom : 
Scarlet  geraniums 

Unfolding  their  fiery  globes  upon  the  night. 
These  are  the  memories  of  day  moulded  in  jagged  flame: 
Lust,  joy,  blood,  and  death. 

With  crushed  hands,  weary  eyes,  and  hoarse  clamour, 
We  consecrate  and  acclaim  them  tumultuously 
Ere  they  pass,  contemptuous,  beyond  the  unpierced  veil  of 
silence. 


[  28  ] 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXVII 

I  THINK  there  was  an  hour  in  which  God  laughed  at  me, 

For  as  I  passed  along  the  street, 

I  saw  that  all  the  women — although  their  bodies  were  dex' 

terously  concealed — 

Were  thinking  with  all  their  might  what  men  were  like : 
And  the  men,  mechanically  correct,  cigars  at  lips, 
Were  wanting  to  rush  at  the  women, 
But  were  restrained  by  respectability  or  timidity, 
Or  fear  of  the  consequences  or  vanity  or  some  puerile  dream 
Of  a  pale  ideal  lost  in  the  vast  grey  sky. 
So  I  said  to  myself,  it  is  time  to  end  all  this: 
I  will  take  the  first  woman  that  comes  along. 
And  then  God  laughed  at  me — and  I  too  smiled 
To  see  that  He  was  in  such  good  humour  and  that  the  sun 

was  shining. 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXVIII 

I  REMEMBER,  there  was  a  day 
During  which  I  did  not  write  a  line  of  verse  : 
Nor  did  I  speak  a  word  to  any  woman, 
Nor  did  I  meet  with  death. 

Yet  all  that  day  I  was  fully  occupied  : 

My  eyes  saw  trees,  clouds,  streets,  houses,  people ; 

My  lungs  breathed  air  ; 

My  mouth  swallowed  food  and  drink ; 

My  hands  seized  things,  my  feet  touched  earth, 

Or  spurned  it  at  my  desire. 

On  that  day  I  know  I  would  have  been  sufficiently  happy, 

If  I  could  have  kept  my  brain  from  bothering  at  all 

About  my  next  trite  poem ; 

About  the  tedious  necessities  of  sex; 

And  about  the  day  on  which  I  would  at  last  meet  death. 


[30] 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXIX 

IT  is  evening,  and  the  earth 

Wraps  her  shoulders  in  an  old  blue  shawl. 

Afar  off  there  clink  the  polychrome  points  of  the  stars, 

Indefatigable,  after  all  these  years ! 

Here  upon  earth  there  is  life,  and  then  death, 

Dawn,  and  later  nightfall, 

Fire,  and  the  quenching  of  embers: 

But  why  should  I  not  remember  that  my  night  is  dawn  in 

another  part  of  the  world, 
If  the  idea  fits  my  fancy? 
Dawns  of  marvellous  light,  wakeful,  sleepy,  weary,  dancing 

dawns, 

You  are  rose  petals  settling  through  the  blue  of  my  evening: 
I  light  my  pipe  to  salute  you, 
And  sit  puffing  smoke  in  the  air  and  never  say  a  word. 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXX 

I  HAVE  seemed  often  feeble  and  useless  to  myself, 
And  many  times  I  have  wished  that  the  tedium  of  my  life 
Lay  at  last  dissolved  in  the  cold  acid  of  death : 
Yet  I  have  not  forgotten 
The  sparkling  of  waters  in  the  sunlight, 
The  sound  of  a  woman's  voice, 
Gliding  dancers, 
Chanting  worshippers, 
A  child  crying, 
The  wind  amid  the  hills. 
These  I  can  remember, 
And  I  think  they  are  more  of  me 

Than  the  wrinkles  on  my  face  and  the  hungry  ache  at  my 
heart. 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXXI 

MY  stiff'spread  arms 
Break  into  sudden  gesture ; 
My  feet  seize  upon  the  rhythm ; 
My  hands  drag  it  upwards : 
Thus  I  create  the  dance. 

I  drink  of  the  red  bowl  of  the  sunlight 
swim  through  seas  of  rain : 
dig  my  toes  into  earth : 
taste  the  smack  of  the  wind : 
am  myself : 
live. 


The  temples  of  the  gods  are  forgotten  or  in  ruins : 

Professors  are  still  arguing  about  the  past  and  the  future : 

I  am  sick  of  reading  marginal  notes  on  life, 

I  am  weary  of  following  false  banners : 

I  desire  nothing  more  intensely  or  completely  than  this 

present ; 
There  is  nothing  about  me  you  are  more  likely  to  notice 

than  my  being : 

Let  me  therefore  rejoice  silently, 
A  golden  butterfly  glancing  against  an  unflecked  wall. 

[  33  ] 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXXII 

TODAY  you  shall  have  but  little  song  from  me, 

For  I  belong  to  the  sunlight. 

This  I  would  not  barter  for  any  kingdom. 

I  am  a  wheeling  swallow, 
Blue  all  over  is  my  delight. 
I  am  a  drowsy  grass'blade 
In  the  greenest  shadow. 


[34] 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXXIII 

MY  desire  goes  bristling  and  growling  like  an  angry  leopard ; 
My  ribs  are  a  hollow  grating,  my  hair  is  coarse  and  hard, 
My  flanks  are  like  sharp  iron  wedges,  my  eyes  glitter  as  chill 

glass ; 
Down  below  there  are  the  meadows  where  my  famished 

hopes  are  feeding, 
I  will  waylay  them  to  windward,  stalking  in  watchful  pa' 

tience, 
I  will  pounce  upon  them,  plunging  my  muzzle  in  the  hot 

spurt  of  their  blood. 


[  35  ] 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXXIV 

THE  flag  let  loose  for  a  day  of  festivity ; 

Free  desperate  symbol  of  battle  and  desire, 

Leaping,  lunging,  tossing  up  the  halyards; 

Below  it  a  tumult  of  music, 

Above  it  the  streaming  wastes  of  the  sky, 

Pinnacles  of  clouds,  pyres  of  dawn, 

Infinite  effort,  everlasting  day. 

The  immense  flag  waving 

Aloft  in  glory: 

Over  seas  and  hilltops 

Transmitting  its  lightnings. 


[  36] 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXXV 

WHAT  weave  you,  what  spin  you, 

What  wonder  win  you, 

You  looms  of  desire? 

Sin  that  is  splendour, 

Love  that  is  shameless, 

Life  that  is  glory, 

Life  that  is  all. 


[  37  ] 


IRRADIATIONS 


XXXVI 

LIKE  cataracts  that  crash  from  a  crumbling  crag 

Into  the  dull'blue  smouldering  gulf  of  a  lake  below, 

Landlocked  amid  the  mountains,  so  my  soul 

Was  a  gorge  that  was  filled  with  the  warring  echoes  of  song. 

Of  old,  they  wore 

Shining  armour,  and  banners  of  broad  gold  they  bore: 

Now  they  drift,  like  a  wild  bird's  cry, 

Downwards  from  chill  summits  of  the  sky. 

Fountains  of  flashing  joy  were  their  source  afar; 

Now  they  lie  still,  to  mirror  every  star. 

In  circles  of  opal,  ruby,  blue,  out'thrown, 

They  drift  down  to  a  dull,  dark  monotone. 

Pluck  the  loose  strings,  singer, 

Thrum  the  strings ; 

For  the  wind  brings  distant,  drowsy  bells  of  song. 

Loose  the  plucked  string,  poet, 

Spurn  the  strings, 

For  the  echoes  of  memory  float  through  the  gulf  for  long. 

My  songs  seem  now  one  humming  note  afar : 
Light  as  ether,  quivering  'twixt  star  and  star, 

E  38  ] 


IRRADIATIONS 

iButyet,  so  still 

I  know  not  whence  they  come,  if  mine  they  are. 

Yet  that  low  note 

Increases  in  force  as  if  it  said,  "I  will" : 

i  Kindled  by  God's  fierce  breath,  it  would  the  whole  world  fill. 

!Till  steadily  outwards  thrown, 

By  trumpets  blazoned,  from  the  sky  downblo wn, 

It  grows  a  vast  march,  massive,  monotonous,  known 

Of  old  gold  trumpeteers 

Through  infinite  years: 

;  Bursting  the  white,  thronged  vaults  of  the  cool  sky. 

Till  hurtling  down  there  falls  one  mad  black  hammer/blow: 

JThen  the  chained  echoes  in  their  maniac  woe 

I  Are  loosed  against  the  silence,  to  shriek  uncannily. 

iThe  strings  shiver  faintly,  poet: 
Strike  the  strings, 
Speed  the  song : 
Tremulous  upward  rush  of  wheeling,  whirling  wings. 


[  39  ] 


IRRADIATIONS 


EPILOGUE 

THE  barking  of  little  dogs  in  the  night  is  more  remembered 

than  the  shining  of  the  stars: 

Only  those  who  watch  for  long  may  see  the  moon  rise : 
And  they  are  mad  ever  after  and  go  with  blind  eyes 
Nosing  hungrily  in  the  gutter  for  the  scraps  that  men  throw 

to  the  dogs ; 
Few  heed  their  babblings. 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 
A  SEA-SYMPHONY 


PART  I.     THE  GALE 

Allegro  furioso. 

PALE  greeivwhite,  in  a  gallop  across  the  sky, 
The  clouds  retreating  from  a  perilous  affray 
Carry  the  moon  with  them,  a  heavy  sack  of  gold; 
Sharp  arrows,  stars  between  them  shoot  and  play. 

The  wind,  as  it  strikes  the  sand, 
Clutches  with  rigid  hands 
And  tears  from  them 
Thin  ribbons  of  pallid  sleet, 
Long  stinging  hissing  drift, 
Which  it  trails  up  inland. 

I  lean  against  the  bitter  wind : 
My  body  plunges  like  a  ship. 
Out  there  I  see  grey  breakers  rise, 
Their  ravelled  beards  are  white, 
And  foam  is  in  their  eyes. 
My  heart  is  blown  from  me  to 'night 
To  be  transfixed  by  all  the  stars. 

Steadily  the  wind 
Rages  up  the  shore  : 

[43  ] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 

In  the  trees  it  roars  and  battles, 

With  rattling  drums 

And  heavy  spears, 

Towards  the  house'fronts  on  it  comes. 

The  village,  a  loose  mass  outflung, 

Breaks  its  path. 

Between  the  walls 

It  bounces,  tosses  in  its  wrath. 

It  is  broken,  it  is  lost. 

With  green'grey  eyes, 

With  whirling  arms, 

With  clashing  feet, 

With  bellowing  lungs, 

Pale  green'white  in  a  gallop  across  the  sky, 

The  wind  comes. 

The  great  gale  of  the  winter  flings  himself  flat  upon  earth. 

He  hurriedly  scribbles  on  the  sand 
His  transient  tragic  destiny. 


[  44  ] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 

PART  II.    VARIATIONS 

(i)  SAILBOATS 

Scberzando. 

/I 

LIGHT  as  thin' winged  swallows  pirouetting  and  gyrating, 

The  sails  dance  in  the  estuary : 

Now  heeling  to  the  gust,  now  cantering, 

Bobbing  as  shuttles  back  and  forth  from  each  other. 

They  scorn  the  black  steamers  that  steadily  near  them 

On  a  course  direct,  with  white  spume  of  smoke  from  their 

bows, 
With  snapping  crash  of  breakers  they  fling  themselves  for/ 

ward:  / 

Black  on  the  wing/tips,  white  on  the  underside. 
These  are  the  birds  of  the  land  breeze, 
Nesting  on  green  waves  in  the  gold  sunlight : 
These  are  the  sailships 
Heeling  and  tossing  about  in  the  estuary. 


[45  ] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 


(2)  THE  TIDE 

Con  moto  ondeggiante. 

THE  tide  makes  music 
At  the  foot  of  the  beach ; 
The  waves  sing  together 
Rumble  of  breakers. 
Ships  there  are  swaying, 
Into  the  distance, 
Thrum  of  the  cordage, 
Slap  of  the  sails. 

The  tide  makes  music 
At  the  foot  of  the  beach  ; 
Low  notes  of  an  organ 
'Gainst  the  dull  clang  of  bells. 
The  tide  's  tense  purple 
On  the  untrodden  sand  : 
Its  throat  is  blue, 
Its  hands  are  gold. 

The  tide  makes  music : 
The  tide  all  day 
Catches  light  from  the  clouds 
That  float  over  the  sky. 
[46  ] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 

Ocean,  old  serpent, 
Coils  up  and  uncoils ; 
With  sinuous  motion, 
With  rustle  of  scales. 


[47  ] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 


(3)  THE  SANDS 

Lento. 

SHALLOW  pools  of  water 
Are  drinking  up  the  sky ; 
Chasms  of  cool  blue'white 
In  the  brown  of  the  sands. 
The  clouds  are  in  them, 
The  houses  on  the  shore, 
The  winds  rumple  the  even 
Glimmer  of  the  reflection. 

Appassionato. 

I  dash  across  those  shallow  pools : 

Starring  their  gauzy  surface : 

A  plopping  rush  of  bubbles : 

I  turn  and  watch  my  boot'tracks 

Oozing  upwards  slowly  in  the  dark  wind'wrinkled  sand. 


[48  ] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 


(4)  THE   GULLS 

Molto  Allegro. 

WHITE  stars  scattering, 

Pale  rain  of  spraydrops, 

Delicate  flash  of  smoke  wind'drifted  low  and  high, 

Silver  upon  dark  purple, 

The  gulls  quiver 

In  a  noiseless  flight,  far  out  across  the  sky. 


[49] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 


(5)  STEAMERS 

Maestoso. 

LIKE  black  plunging  dolphins  with  red  bellies, 

The  steamers  in  herds 

Swim  through  the  choppy  breakers 

On  this  day  of  winds  and  clouds. 

Wallowing  and  plunging, 

They  seek  their  path, 

The  smoke  of  their  snorting 

Hangs  in  the  sky. 

Like  black  plunging  dolphins  with  red  bellies, 

The  steamers  pass, 

Flapping  their  propellers 

Salt  with  the  spray. 

Their  iron  sides  glisten, 

Their  stays  thrash: 

Their  funnels  quiver 

With  the  heat  from  beneath. 

Like  black  plunging  dolphins  with  red  bellies, 
The  steamers  together  s#^_ 

Dive  and  roll  through  the  tumult 
Of  green  hissing  water. 

[  50  ] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 

These  are  the  avid  of  spoil, 
Gleaners  of  the  seas, 
They  loom  on  their  adventure 
Up  purple  and  chrome  horizons. 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 


(6)  NIGHT  OF  STARS 

Allegro  brillante. 

THE  sky  immense,  bejewelled  with  rain  of  stars, 

Hangs  over  us : 

The  stars  like  a  sudden  explosion  powder  the  zenith 

With  green  and  gold ; 

North-east,  south/ west  the  Milky  Way's  pale  streamers 

Flash  past  in  flame ; 

The  sky  is  a  swirling  cataract 

Of  fire,  on  high. 

Over  us  the  sky  up  to  the  zenith 

Palpitates  with  tense  glitter : 

About  our  keel  the  foam  bubbles  and  curdles 

In  phosphorescent  joy. 

Flame  boils  up  to  meet  down'rushing  flame 

In  the  blue  stillness. 

Aloft  a  single  orange  meteor 

Crashes  down  the  sky. 


[52] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 


J 


PART  III.   VARIATIONS 

(i)  THE  GROUNDSWELL. 

Marcla  Funebre. 

WITH  heavy  doleful  clamour,  hour  on  hour,  and  day  on 
day, 

The  muddy  groundswell  lifts  and  breaks  and  falls  and  slides 
away. 

The  cold  and  naked  wind  runs  shivering  over  the  sands, 
Salt  are  its  eyes,  open  its  mouth,  its  brow  wet,  blue  its  hands. 

It  finds  naught  but  a  starving  gull  whose  wings  trail  at  its 

side, 
And  the  dull  battered  wreckage,  grey  jetsam  of  the  tide. 

The  lifeless  chilly  slaty  sky  with  no  blue  hope  is  lit, 

A  rusty  waddling  steamer  plants  a  smudge  of  smoke  on  it. 

Stupidly  stand  the  factory  chimneys  staring  over  all, 
The  grey  grows  ever  denser,  and  soon  the  night  will  fall : 

The  wind  runs  sobbing  over  the  beach  and  touches  with 

its  hands 

Straw,  chaff,  old  bottles,  broken  crates,  the  litter  of  the  sands. 

[  53  ] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 

Sometimes  the  bloated  carcase  of  a  dog  or  fish  is  found, 
Sometimes  the  rumpled  feathers  of  a  sea-gull  shot  or  drowned. 

Last  year  it  was  an  unknown  man  who  came  up  from  the 

sea, 
There  is  his  grave  hard  by  the  dunes  under  a  stunted  tree. 

With  heavy  doleful  clamour,  hour  on  hour,  and  day  on  day, 
The  muddy  groundswell  lifts  and  breaks  and  falls  and  slides 
away. 


t  54] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 


(2)  SNOW  AT  SEA 

Andante. 

SILENTLY  fell 

The  snow  on  the  waters 

In  the  grey  dusk 

Of  the  winter  evening: 

Swirling  and  falling, 

Sucked  into  the  oily 

Blue'black  surface 

Of  the  sea. 

We  pounded  on  slowly  ; 

From  our  bows  sheeted 

A  shuddering  mass  of  heavy  foam: 

Night  closed  about  us, 

But  ere  we  were  darkened, 

We  saw  close  in 

A  great  gaunt  schooner 

Beating  to  southward. 

Silently  fell 

The  snow  on  the  waters, 
As  we  pounded  north 
In  the  winter  evening. 
[55] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 


(3)  THE  NIGHT  WIND 

Adagio  lamentoso. 

WIND  of  the  night,  wind  of  the  long  cool  shadows, 
Wind  from  the  garden  gate  stealing  up  the  avenue, 
Wind  caressing  my  cool  pale  cheek  completely, 
All  my  happiness  goes  out  to  you. 

Wind  flapping  aimlessly  at  my  yellow  window  curtain, 
Wind  suddenly  insisting  on  your  way  down  to  the  sea, 
Buoyant  wind,  sobbing  wind,  wind  shuddering  and  plaintive, 
Why  come  you  from  beyond  through  the  night's  blue  mys' 
tery? 

Wind  of  my  dream,  wind  of  the  delicate  beauty, 

Wind  strumming  idly  at  the  harp'Strings  of  my  heart : 

Wind  of  the  autumn — O  melancholy  beauty, 

Touch  me  once  —  one  instant — you  and  I  shall  never  part! 

Wind  of  the  night,  wind  that  has  fallen  silent, 
Wind  from  the  dark  beyond  crying  suddenly,  eerily, 
What  terrible  news  have  you  shrieked  out  there  in  the 

stillness  ? 
The  night  is  cool  and  quiet  and  the  wind  has  crept  to  sea. 

[  56  ] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 


(4)  THE  WRECK 

Grave:  triste. 

ITS  huge  red  prow 

Uplifted  in  a  tragic  attitude, 

It  waits  out  there ;  the  seas  around 

Bubble  and  hiss  with  moaning  sound : 

In  sight  of  port  at  the  gates  of  the  sea, 

It  waits  upreared  expectantly. 

It  has  known  the  joy  of  battle, 

It  has  known  the  shock  of  wreck : 

The  spray  coated  its  planking, 

The  sands  swallow  its  deck : 

Monument  of  the  sea, 

That  knows  and  that  forgets  eternally. 

It  heaves  its  scarred  brow  towards  the  city : 
The  city  pays  it  little  heed : 
Indifferent,  brutal,  without  pity, 
Stern  cargo'steamers  trudge  and  speed ; 
The  sun  glares  on  it  and  the  gulls  wheel  and  flash, 
The  rain  beats  on  its  deck,  the  winds  pass  silently ; 
It  is  out  there  alone  with  the  immense  sea  : 
Alone  with  its  forgotten  tragedy. 
[  57  ] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 


(5)  TIDE  OF   STORMS 

Allegro  con  fuoco. 

CROOKED,  crawling  tide  with  long  wet  fingers 
Clutching  at  the  gritty  beach  in  the  roar  and  spurt  of  spray, 
Tide  of  gales,  drunken  tide,  lava'burst  of  breakers, 
Black  ships  plunge  upon  you  from  sea  to  sea  away. 

Shattering  tide,  tide  of  winds,  tide  of  the  long  still  winter, 
What  matter  though  ships  fail,  men  sink,  there  vanish  glory? 
War/clouds  shall  hurl  their  stinging  sleet  upon  our  last 

adventure, 
Nighfwinds  shall  brokenly  whisper  our  bitter,  tragic  story. 


[58] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 


PART  IV.   THE  CALM 

Largo, 

IN  the  morning  I  saw  three  great  ships 

Almost  motionless 

Becalmed  on  an  infinite  horizon. 

The  clatter  of  waves  up  the  beach, 

The  grating  rush  of  wet  pebbles, 

The  loud  monotonous  song  of  the  surf, 

All  these  have  soothed  me 

And  have  given 

My  soul  to  rest. 

At  noon  I  shall  see  waves  flashing, 
White  power  of  spray. 

The  steamers,  stately, 

Kick  up  white  puffs  of  spray  behind  them. 

The  boiling  wake 

Merges  in  the  blue'black  mirror  of  the  sea. 

One  eye  of  the  sun  sees  all: 
The  world,  the  wave,  my  heart. 
I  am  content. 

[59  ] 


SAND  AND  SPRAY 

In  the  afternoon  I  shall  dream  a  dream 
Of  islands  beyond  the  horizon. 

White  clouds  drift  over  the  sky, 
Frigates  on  a  long  voyage. 

In  the  evening  a  mute  blue  stillness 

Clutches  at  my  heart. 

Stars  sparkle  upon  the  tips  of  my  fingers. 

Mystical  hush, 
Fire  in  the  darkness ; 
The  breaking  of  dreams. 

But  in  the  morning  I  shall  see  three  great  ships 

Almost  motionless 

Becalmed  on  an  infinite  horizon. 


THE  END 


14  DAY  USE 

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